


A Reasonable Sacrifice

by voiceless_terror



Series: TMA Hurt/Comfort Week [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist With a Cane, Medication/Discussion of Medication, Mental Health Issues, Minor Injury/Some Blood, TMAHC Week, Very Slight Mention of Canon Typical Worms, season one, talk of anxiety and depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:20:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26084095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voiceless_terror/pseuds/voiceless_terror
Summary: Jon didn’t think it would be this much of an issue but here he was, barely able to keep his pencil still.Jon’s shaky hands are interfering with his work. Martin tries to help.
Series: TMA Hurt/Comfort Week [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1893808
Comments: 17
Kudos: 261





	A Reasonable Sacrifice

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this for Magnus Writer’s H/C Week Day One, which I found on tumblr! Prompts were self-worth issues, pretend, and shaky hands. Mostly influenced by the latter, as you can tell, but tried to incorporate the others as well. Please heed the tags- there’s some pretty frank talk about medication, mental health issues, and the attitudes towards them, which might be an issue for some people!

Jon didn’t think it would be this much of an issue but here he was, barely able to keep his pencil still.

His mental health had always been a source of consternation for his grandmother. He’d never been an easy child to deal with, he could admit to that, but he’d been especially difficult after ‘the incident,’ which his grandmother decided was more of a nervous break. Jon had been shuffled off to a child psychiatrist who’d diagnosed him with an ‘overactive imagination,’ but was still able to recognize the anxiety that came from his supposed encounter. She recommended more appointments and if that didn’t help, medication. Jon’s grandmother, a real product of her time, wouldn’t consider it. All subsequent appointments had been canceled- after all, if you don’t acknowledge it, it doesn’t exist! 

From then on out, Jon was labeled as ‘fine.’ Until he managed to get out on his own and meet others who could empathize with his situation and point him in the right direction. On his visits home from college, he never mentioned any of this to his grandmother. Best not to start an argument during their already tense meetings. 

So he’d been on medication for a few years to help with his generalized anxiety and depression. A little tweak here and there, but for the past six months he’d felt pretty good on his current dosage. It probably helped that he’d established a routine. Made some friends. Sometimes, he even laughed and smiled. He was sleeping at night, which helped with his chronic pain. Jon hadn’t realized how much stress had truly impacted his life until he experienced days without it.

And then came the promotion. The distance between him and Tim and Sasha. Whatever _Martin_ was. And of course, Prentiss. He’d gotten quite comfortable crushing worms underneath his cane, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed it.

So needless to say, the past few months had been difficult. Which is why, when he brought it up with his psychiatrist, they mutually agreed to raise his dosage.

Again, this shouldn’t have been an issue. It was done safely, incrementally. And it helped! The constant ache in his chest and lump in his throat began to ease. His anxiety became a distant hum, more background noise that at this point was almost comforting.

The trade off, of course, were the side effects.

He’d anticipated the strange, hour-long dreams returning, but that hadn’t happened. He never really experienced any of the other listed side effects to a severe degree. But this minor increase seemed to do the trick. His hands, which were never steady to begin with, now started to have trouble with basic tasks- holding objects, steadying his cane, and worst of all, writing.

His leg jittered as he sat in any seat, sometimes to such a violent degree that it slammed against the underside of his desk with a resounding thump and his assistants rushed to check on the noise. Cups of tea eagerly supplied by Martin (they’d increased in frequency ever since he took up residence in Document Storage) were left untouched. He had no time to analyze the guilt he felt every time Martin came to collect a still-full cup with a slight look of hurt.

He’d thought going back to his regular dose would help, but in his impatience, he decided not to taper it down slowly. In came the strange, overlong dreams and night sweats. The ‘brain zaps,’ as he’d come to call them, left him unbalanced and light-headed, a great combination with his cane.

And the anxiety. The knowledge that he didn’t deserve this job paralyzed his hand, leaving him unmotivated to the point of one statement a week. A mind that screamed for him to ‘just do it’ in one breath and stayed his hand in another. _There’s no use in trying if you’re going to get it wrong_. If he could just get one word down, the rest would follow. _It’ll come to you_. It never did.

The situation wasn’t helped by Elias’s recent visit to the Archives. Every room still a mess, Tim out on an investigation, Sasha silent and distracted at her desk, Martin bumbling in the break room. And sitting in his office, head pillowed in his arms and mind trapped in a fitful doze, the Head Archivist himself! What an inspiring sight. Startled by the creaking door, Jon had tried to calm his racing heart and gain some semblance of professionalism. Judging by Elias’s face, it didn’t work.

He stuttered his way through the probing questions, for once thankful that Martin interrupted to offer tea (even if it only broke Elias’s intense gaze for two seconds). The disappointment was clear in the man’s eyes, even if his voice remained remarkably even-keeled.

“If you need any help or extra resources, please let me know.” A placid smile.

“O-Of course, thank you.”

“And please, try to get your rest at home. It wouldn’t do to have you sleeping on the job now, would it?”

Jon’s face flushed red at being caught. “Yes, I know. I’m sorry.”

A hum of acknowledgement and the door was shut.

Jon’s nails dug into his arms hard enough to leave marks.

And so, when presented with a choice between losing his job and having a few tremors, Jon had chosen the obvious. He re-upped his dosage and quaked behind his desk. Like he was doing right now. At nine at night.

He wished he could say he was getting work done, but he truly wasn’t. His laptop was on the fritz again, having never fully recovered from his attempts to record the more…difficult statements. IT denied his request for a loaner, citing ‘budget issues.’ He’d prefer to scribble his thoughts by hand, anyway.

But that activity required a steady hand, which was something Jon didn’t have right now. Looking down at what he'd accomplished so far, it was mostly illegible. He’d tried holding down his right hand with his left, but the wrist brace made it bulky and uncomfortable. So instead he leaned back in his chair and rubbed at his temples in futility. He should try talking to his psychiatrist about the issue, see if there was anything she could recommend. But that would require talking on the phone. And explaining his situation. If he were being honest with himself, he was also incredibly afraid she’d suggest switching medications, and he’d have another issue to tackle on top of the archives. Best to put up and shut up.

He reached for the glass of water on his desk (he’d found some straws in the break room, which made drinking a lot easier), pulling it towards him. But his hand rebelled, spasming with force enough to knock the glass straight onto the floor with a resounding crash. Jon cursed, and fell on aching knees to quickly pick it up.

So consumed with picking up every last shard, he didn’t notice the shadow behind him until it put a hand on his shoulder and startled him into falling backwards, some of the collected pieces scattering from his hand.

“Sorry, sorry!” A familiar voice rang out. _Martin_. Jon had forgotten, once again, that he’d loaned the man his cot and would thus be around this late at night. “I tried saying your name, but you weren’t listening, so- Christ Jon, you’re bleeding!”

Ah, it seemed he was.

His fall had caused his hand to clench around the shards and tiny rivulets of blood were currently running down his hands, coating his brace and probably the floor. He hissed as the stinging pain cut through his confusion. _Another loss for the famous Sims’ coordination._

Jon then became aware of his position-he’d basically fallen back into Martin’s arms and was currently leaning on his chest. He immediately jumped forward to create a distance, palms and knees flat on the glass-coated ground. _Bad move._

“ _Stop moving!_ You’re making it worse,” Martin grabbed him around the waist and lifted him up, easing him backwards into the chair. Jon scowled at his savior, not appreciating the casual ease with which Martin maneuvered him, though he didn’t attempt to struggle. When it came to fight or flight, Jon was more of a ‘freeze’ man. He looked Martin up and down, noting the man was wearing red flannel pajamas and thick woolen socks that looked homemade.

“That’s not very professional,” he bit out, looking down at his palms to see small, embedded pieces of glass. _Shit._

“Jon, I think that’s the _least_ of your issues,” Martin replied somewhat hysterically, hands hovering near Jon’s own. “I’m getting the first aid kit- this looks _really_ bad.” He dodged the bits of glass that were strewn about the floor and scurried out of the room.

“That’s really not necessary,” Jon muttered to the empty office. _Washing my hands would probably get most of it out._ The cuts didn’t seem that deep, but he wasn’t exactly the greatest at identifying how much pain was ‘too much.’ With his body, pain was pretty much par for the course. He gingerly removed the wrist brace; another thing he’d have to wash. It left a smear of blood in its wake, and he had to admit that it was starting to look a little gory. Martin must have agreed if the sound he made on re-entering the room was anything to go by. He shook his head as he made his way to the other side of Jon’s desk, grabbing hold of his chair by the arm and pulling it towards him.

“Gotta get you out of the line of fire,” he joked weakly without a smile. Jon remained silent, made uncomfortable again by the sudden proximity of his coworker and his concerned frown as he inspected the damage to his hand. He cradled his wrist as if it were made of glass, the gentleness of it sending a shiver down Jon’s spine. Martin favored him with another worried glance. “Are you cold? I’ll lend you one of my cardigans once we’ve dealt with all of…this.”

Jon grunted in acknowledgment, not trusting his voice. Martin was arguably the most annoying of his coworkers, always bothering him in his office and asking him how he was ‘doing’ and whether or not he was getting enough sleep or eating regular meals. It was suffocating and enough to make a grown man weep in irritation. His initial suspicion that Martin was planted by Elias to ‘watch’ him had somewhat faded, but he still had his doubts. _Why else would he be so concerned with what I’m up to? What a strange man._

Martin had brought Jon’s hand close to eye level, searching intently for bits of glass. “I only see a couple, but I think I should take you to the clinic instead, just to be safe-"

“ _No._ ” he interrupted rather brusquely. The last thing he needed was to get _more_ people involved in this situation. Talking to Martin was hard enough. “…I’d rather just do it here. I can probably do it myself, you really don’t-"

“Jon,” Martin stopped him in that patient tone of his, though his face remained grave. “Your hands are shaking pretty badly- is everything alright? It could be shock or something-"

“It’s not,” Jon cut him off. “I’m fine. Please, just- you can help me. That’s fine. And then I can finish up.”

Martin had already started to grab a pair of tweezers and an antiseptic wipe, Jon’s hand still gently cradled in his own. The burn of Martin’s hand on his was more intense than the stinging pain in his palm, though not for long as he gently began to extract the pieces of glass. Jon hissed, and Martin murmured apologies even as he continued his work. Whenever Jon flinched or made a noise, Martin responded in kind with low, shushing noises, like a parent comforting a child. He seemed to be a natural caretaker, and against his will Jon found himself relaxing at his touch.

“You really should be more careful,” he chided. He looked down after finishing his handiwork, taking note of the way Jon’s hands shook. Jon tried to still them, unsuccessfully. “Is this…how long have they been like this? Have you eaten at all today?”

“It’s not that,” Jon bit out. He had eaten, if an apple and a cold coffee counted. “It’s just that lately, well- things have been rather stressful, a-and,” his leg began to vibrate up and down; Jon put his left arm down to still it. Martin was still looking at him with those patient, worried eyes and words started to spill from his lips unbidden.

“I-I take medication-” _Stop._ “and I had to s-switch the dosage, and it’s been-” _He doesn’t care_. “-it’s been not good, I guess,” _He asked, though._ The rest of the words were muttered to his lap as his face flushed in embarrassment. _Why are you telling this to a colleague, this is private_ warred with _please tell me it’s okay, that I’m alright, that I’m not broken_ and he landed somewhere in between. “I’m sorry, you didn’t need to-"

Martin was already winding bandages around his hand, applying light pressure. “Is that a normal side effect? Or is it something more serious?” Jon paused at the query. No question of why he was taking medication, what he needed it for, like he expected. Just that same infernal, gentle concern.

“N-normal, I think. Just…not good, for me.”

“I can imagine,” Martin eyed his handiwork critically and returned his hand back to him, seemingly satisfied. “We should check on that tomorrow, but you should be good for now. Does it hurt?”

_We._

“Jon?”

“A-ah, no- I mean, yes, but not badly. Just…as it should, I guess?” Jon’s mouth had trouble forming words. He chalked it up to the late hour and not the company. “I should probably get back to work.”

Martin raised a dubious eyebrow, crossing his arms. “And what work can’t wait until tomorrow?”

“I’m taking notes!” he defended, gesturing to the desk where said notes were sitting. Said notes that were completely illegible. Martin squinted down at the paper and Jon found himself growing hot.

“Maybe you should be typing these? Just for now, while you’re,” he paused, clearly trying not to cause offense “-working things out?”

“My laptop’s-"

“Ah, right, I forgot,” Martin took a minute to think. “You could record them?”

“I don’t want to waste tape,” Jon replied, though that wasn’t the real reason. He didn’t want to commit his own meandering thoughts to tape, not until he’d cleared through all of the research and could be in the right ‘head space’ to record. He didn’t want Elias or any of the researchers to happen upon his random musings and despite what everyone seemed to think, he really disliked the sound of his own voice.

Martin’s voice piped in again, “I could maybe type them for you? I mean, you’re welcome to use my laptop, but I don’t think you should really be using that hand right now.” Jon stared, and Martin began to babble. “You can say no, of course, I don’t want to intrude on your- your _process_ or anything-"

“No,” Jon said quietly, barely audible above Martin’s stammering. “I think that might actually be helpful. For now. If you don’t mind.” Jon was loath to say it, but Martin had a…calming influence on him, for the time being. And maybe he could finally get some work done, have something to show to Elias tomorrow, to prove he could work around his own shortcomings. After all, it was only nine- they had the rest of the night, right?

“Of course not, I offered!” Martin smiled, but his face quickly grew stern. “But only for a little while. You need at least a _few_ hours of sleep, even if it’s on that dreadful thing you call a couch.”

Well, they had an hour or two. Enough to gather his thoughts on the latest statement before recording, he figured. And maybe enough to calm his mind so he could sleep through the night.

_It’d be nice not to be alone_ , his traitorous mind whispered.

“Okay, okay,” he agreed as Martin favored him with a shy smile and a promise to grab another cardigan as he rushed from the room. Jon flexed his still-shaking hand; the stinging in his palm had lessened, and he felt a warmth deep in his bones that had nothing to do with the temperature. He wasn’t sure why his eyes teared up at the sight of the bandages, so carefully applied. It’s not like Martin worked a miracle or anything. He wasn’t fixed or cured, that was for sure.

_But maybe_ , Jon thought, _you aren’t broken, either._

**Author's Note:**

> Me? Project on Jon? Never!
> 
> I have a couple of other fics lined up for this week (maybe even the full seven!) but I can’t promise they’ll be out on the designated day. Lots of work, it turns out, to write things!
> 
> As always, please let me know your thoughts. Comments and kudos always appreciated!


End file.
